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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403846">make-believe (until we're no longer sure what's real)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutecumber_flower/pseuds/cutecumber_flower'>cutecumber_flower</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inception (2010)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fake Dating, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:34:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24403846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cutecumber_flower/pseuds/cutecumber_flower</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m rather hurt.” Eames sounded the furthest from being hurt. “As if you wouldn’t snog me for ten mil. Think about that.”</p><p>“Two, after we split that five ways," Arthur said. "Probably one point six, after accounting for risks."</p><p>“Semantics, darling.”</p><p>  <i>In which Arthur agrees to be Eames's pretend-boyfriend. For the greater good.</i></p><p>
  <b>Completed!</b>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arthur/Eames (Inception)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>61</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>335</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>These two are so ridiculously fun, I can't.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I have a very important request, Arthur.” Eames’s voice cut through Arthur’s concentration like a laser through glass. “A life-or-death situation I’m afraid.”</p><p>Leave it to Eames to exaggerate. Nonetheless, Arthur was glad for the distraction; any excuse to take his eyes off of his computer would be welcome. “Go on.”</p><p>“I need you to date me.”</p><p>That was a new one, though not entirely out of the realm of plausibility, considering it was, well, Eames. Still. “What the fuck?”</p><p>From the look on Eames’s face, he was enjoying Arthur’s bewilderment. “Long story short, if all goes according to plan, it’ll be our gateway to securing the Bellini job. You remember, don’t you, the ten mil we’ve been trying to land for almost a bloody month.”</p><p>Now, Arthur was somewhat interested; Bellini was the reason for his countless late-<em>late </em>nights over the past few weeks, and he’d all but accepted his efforts had been in vain, because Bellini was one rich, stubborn asshole who was this close to becoming their next client.</p><p>But in what reality would <em>this</em> work? “I’m listening,” Arthur said.</p><p>Eames glanced at his watch. “As of forty-six minutes ago, I’ve learned from a trustworthy source that of all the people in our line of work, my ex is the main reason the whole deal with Bellini is stalling in the first place. And Henry, boy, is he a vindictive bastard. A jealous one, too. So, I’ve quite recently—forty-six minutes ago, if you were wondering—made it my purpose to take the piss out of him. To eliminate our competition, Arthur, you understand.”</p><p>Arthur stared at him. “You’re saying you want to fake-date to piss off your ex and put him off his game, as a strategic business maneuver.”</p><p>“Sounds awfully trite when you say it that way, but yes.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous.”</p><p>“It’s hardly my fault you can’t think out of the box, Arthur,” Eames said, smirking. The bastard was clearly enjoying this far too much. “Anyway, are you really gonna put ten million dollars up to chance, when there’s an easy solution before our eyes?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t call making your ex jealous for the slight chance he’ll mess up an ‘easy solution’, Eames.”</p><p>“I’m rather hurt.” Eames sounded the furthest from being hurt. “As if you wouldn’t snog me for ten mil. Think about that.”</p><p>“Two, after we split that five ways. Probably one point six, after accounting for risks.”</p><p>“Semantics, darling.”</p><p>Arthur scoffed, and wanted to kick himself for even contemplating the suggestion, because the next thing he said was, “What’s in it for me?”</p><p>“Besides landing the job? Well, you get to stop fantasizing about this nice piece of arse right here and get the real deal, <em>and</em> the satisfaction of knowing you’re hot enough that it’ll drive Henry absolutely batshit crazy because he could never stand the thought of me being with anyone sexier than him.”</p><p>Arthur felt his eyebrows raise in incredulity, trying to ignore the fact that Eames had just used the words ‘hot’ and ‘sexy’ to describe him, <em>and </em>compared Arthur to his ex. More importantly, there was also the implication that Eames thought Arthur had ever fantasized about him at <em>all. </em></p><p>Because Arthur hadn’t. Not in any way remotely close to the act of fantasizing. More like—satiating one’s curiosity.</p><p><em>Semantics, </em>Eames would say to that, probably. Fuck him.</p><p>Betraying none of his turmoil, Arthur asked, flatly, “And how’s this a life-or-death situation again?”</p><p>“Ah, that was just to get your attention.”</p><p>Arthur scowled.</p><p>That only seemed to contribute to Eames’s insufferable amusement. “Careful, don’t want to get premature wrinkles on your pretty forehead, do we now?”</p><p>“Piss off.”</p><p>“Arthur, Arthur, come on.” Eames leaned forward on his chair; thus leaning closer to Arthur as a result. “You can’t say it’s not <em>tempting</em>.”</p><p>The prospect of landing Bellini was tempting. Being Eames’s pretend-boyfriend, on the other hand, was—debatable. Arthur didn’t even want to begin to think about the rest of the team’s reactions to this ‘plan’; Ariadne would probably look at them like they were insane but adorable at once, Dom would be speechless when Ariadne told him about it over their next Skype call, and Yusuf would laugh his fucking ass off.</p><p>In other words, it was the worst idea in the world.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It took Arthur all of two days to come around to it, which was a pathetically short amount of time because, again, it was the worst idea in the world.</p><p>But if he’d had any better ideas, he wouldn’t be here, so in the end, perhaps he was to blame. Actually, Arthur blamed Eames’s ex for being such a damned smooth talker that Bellini might as well be panting after him.</p><p>“Can’t we just—revise our proposal, make it cheaper for Bellini, or something,” Arthur said, after Eames had ordered them two strawberry daiquiris—“What, they’re bloody delicious,” he’d said to Arthur—at some highbrow bar in Rome that was apparently one of Henry’s frequented locales.</p><p>“You know as well as I do that Bellini has more money than the Bank of China,” Eames was saying. “He doesn’t care about our price, darling, only the one who can charm him and, honestly, Henry can be quite impressive in that department. Until you step on his foot, that is. And when his mask slips, it fucking shatters and it'll be his next career before he can sweet-talk another soul.”</p><p>“That’s what we’ll be doing then—step on his foot.”</p><p>Eames snorted. “No, no, no. What we’ll be doing, Arthur, is backhand him across the mouth, kick him in the balls, and punch him in the neck. At least that’s what he’ll feel like by the time we’re done.” Eames took a large sip of his cocktail, eyes on the entrance. “There he is. The walking ten mil. So close I can taste it.”</p><p>Arthur followed Eames’s gaze, and the first thing he thought was—Jesus fucking Christ, this guy was hot. Out-of-this-world <em>hot</em>. How the hell would Arthur compare to that<em>?</em></p><p>In any case, Eames certainly thought Arthur was, well, <em>hotter</em>; he'd said as much.</p><p>In fact, why did Arthur even care about what Eames thought at all?</p><p>Arthur gulped down the rest of his drink and slammed the glass back on the table. There was no time like the present. “Let’s just do this, shall we?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“He’s—impressive,” Arthur said, eyes on Henry. He and Eames remained where they were at the bar as Henry walked in with a woman and settled into a booth.</p><p>Eames took another sip of his drink. “As they say, Arthur, beauty is as beauty does, and to Henry it’s especially pertinent.”</p><p>“Jesus, what the hell did he do?” Arthur muttered, more so to himself, but Eames had heard him.</p><p>“Nothing original. Bad news all the same.”</p><p>“Considering he’s <em>your</em> ex, that’s not surprising.”</p><p>Eames slanted a glance at him, mouth curling into a small smirk. “That’s rather rude, darling.”</p><p>“Forgive me, Mr Eames,” Arthur said, deadpan. “Now, the plan. What is it?”</p><p>“We observe.” Eames gestured towards Henry with the glass in his hand. “Though frankly there’s not too much to learn, because I can tell you right now, that Henry only takes out a woman this gorgeous when he needs a boost to his ego.”</p><p>“Hard to imagine him lacking in that department.”</p><p>“Even the most handsome of men have their moments of insecurities. Speaking from experience.”</p><p>Arthur rolled his eyes.</p><p>Before long, at Eames’s behest, they moved closer to where Henry and his date idled—close enough for Henry to notice, though sufficiently far away to avoid looking suspicious.</p><p>Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Arthur saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Henry was staring past the woman’s shoulder directly at them.</p><p>“He’s caught on, then,” Eames said upon Arthur’s expression, with his back towards Henry’s booth. It was almost unnerving, how easily Eames could tell simply from the shift in Arthur’s demeanor.</p><p>Well, Eames was a renown forger for a reason...</p><p>“He can’t even see your face and he still noticed,” Arthur said. “What the hell, Eames.”</p><p>Eames shrugged. “What can I say? I find perceptive men attractive.”</p><p>Wouldn’t it be interesting if Eames’s description of ‘perceptive men’ included Arthur—</p><p>What the fuck?</p><p>He shook off the thought.</p><p>“So, what now?” Arthur asked.</p><p>Grinning, Eames said, “Watch and learn.”</p><p>“Impress me.”</p><p>Off Eames went, while Arthur remained where he was, waiting for the scene to unfold. Eames sauntered towards Henry’s table, greeted his ex with that obnoxiously fanciful way of his. If only Arthur could hear this particular conversation…</p><p>Eames and Henry talked for a short while, and Henry’s date looked away, fidgeted with her drink with a mildly annoyed expression. Henry wasn’t looking much more amused, either—he was verging on scowling, now that Arthur observed more closely, then both Eames and Henry turned to look at Arthur at once. Henry’s frown deepened, and Arthur sipped from his drink, pretended to reply to a text message on his phone.</p><p>Not long after, Eames returned.</p><p>“And?” Arthur set his phone down. “Tell me I didn’t feel like a moron for—” he glanced down at his watch “—two hours for nothing.”</p><p>Eames gave a small laugh. “Oh, we’re far from finished, but I assure you when we’re done, there’ll be an extra two million in your account and you’ll want to thank me so badly you’d suck my cock.”</p><p>“Go fuck yourself, Eames.”</p><p>“Kiss me.”</p><p>Arthur scowled. “What?”</p><p>“I know for a bloody fact that Henry is watching right now, so shut up and kiss me.”</p><p>“Why don’t you—”</p><p>And Eames’s mouth was on Arthur’s. The kiss was quick and casual, but warm all the same, and when Eames pulled away, he was grinning. “Step one—accomplished.”</p><p>Despite himself, Arthur felt his cheeks flush somewhat, which he ignored. “Eames, he looks like he wants to kill us. Slowly.”</p><p>Eames grinned. “Good. Now, let’s get the hell out of here.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was a few days later. After Arthur and Eames's stint at the bar, they had kept on with their day jobs, with Arthur continuing to gather intelligence on Casella &amp; Co.—their would-be target if they ever landed the deal with Bellini—whilst Eames tailed the secretary of the company's CTO. </p><p>Where Henry was concerned, the next step of Eames’s ridiculous plan was to visit Henry’s beloved cafe, which was a quaint little shop near the northern end of St Angelo Bridge.</p><p>“For someone who travels the world for a living, he has lots of favored locales in one city,” Arthur said to Eames as they arrived at the cafe.</p><p>“We worked a job here,” Eames said. “Took six months, that one. A bitch to be sure. So, yes, preferred spots of stress-relief were established, you could say.”</p><p>Right. Arthur glanced at him. “You still like him or something?”</p><p>Eames scoffed. “God, no. I’d fuck a pig over him.” He smirked at Arthur. “Are you feeling a little jealous?”</p><p>“I’d fuck a pig over you.”</p><p>“Now you’re just lying, mate.”</p><p>They ordered their coffees and took an empty table by the window.</p><p>Arthur took a sip of his double-shot espresso. It was decent. “How are you so sure he’d come here today?”</p><p>“Because, like you, Arthur, predictable is his middle name.”</p><p>“Efficient is the word you’re looking for, Eames.”</p><p>“Nope.”</p><p>“You’re insufferable.”</p><p>“At least I’m not predictable.”</p><p>There was no winning this debate.</p><p>Henry strolled in fifteen minutes later, long after either of them had finished their drinks, and ordered at the counter. It wasn’t until he was waiting for his coffee on the side that he noticed Eames and Arthur.</p><p>Ignoring Henry, Eames continued to tell Arthur about the one time he’d managed to forge a stripper so effectively he got distracted by himself.</p><p>“What, you’re not gonna attack me with your mouth again like you did at the bar?” Arthur said, nodding subtly towards Henry. Distantly, Arthur was a little horrified to find out he was almost hoping Eames <em>would</em>.</p><p>“No,” Eames said, “acting like you enjoy my company is enough. There’s something about coffee shops that makes even the most chaste interactions seem rather laced with salacious undertones.”</p><p>Arthur shook his head. “Sometimes I don’t know how your brain works.”</p><p>Smiling lazily, Eames said, “You never do, Arthur. You never do.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Arthur had sworn to himself he would never get to this point, yet here he was, on his laptop at two in the morning, researching. Researching Eames’s ex. Like Arthur was some desperate bachelor in running for England’s snarkiest bastard, out to get any upper-hand he could. Jesus fucking Christ.</p><p>Then again, this was <em>work-related </em>research. Yes, it was for work, for that sweet, sweet seven-figure deal.</p><p>That was all.</p><p>Most of what he could find were rather mundane, which was hardly surprising; Henry wouldn’t be doing what he was if he’d let anything actually incriminating online. Even so, when Arthur stumbled upon his various fake social media accounts, he couldn’t stop himself from scrolling and scrolling, clicking on pictures and random posts.</p><p>It was a good thing Eames wasn’t here, because he would never let Arthur live <em>this </em>down.</p><p>But when Arthur found a photo of Eames and Henry—dated one year ago—posing in front of the Colosseum like two insipid tourists who happened to resemble Greek gods, Arthur had an idea.</p><p>He took a screenshot of his phone and messaged it to Eames, with the caption ‘<em>Care for another visit?’.</em></p><p>Eames replied soon after: <em>‘Not only are you a liar, you’re also a stalker. But yes. I like the way you think.’</em></p><p>
  <em>‘Still have Henry on your accounts then.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘Yes.’</em>
</p><p>
  <em>‘He’s about to learn how real tourists take photos.’</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I love writing their banter. Can you tell?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been a long two hours in the morning, and Arthur would sacrifice his finest Patek Philippe if it’d get him out of their stifling, make-shift office. It was absurd, really, that they were pursuing a multi-million dollar job in such a shitbox.</p><p>The room was bloody <em>torrid</em> and Arthur just wanted to get out. Good thing then, that there was only fifteen minutes before they were supposed to leave for the Colosseum; judging by the way Eames was drumming his fingers along his desk from across the floor, Arthur wasn’t the only one who was impatient.</p><p>In fact, seeing as Eames was in casual clothes rather than his usual get-up for work, Arthur might say Eames would be even more eager to get the hell out.</p><p>Their eyes met. Arthur’s instinct was to look away, because it would be weird as fuck, staring at each other like that. But he didn’t want to relent and let Eames take this victory. So he maintained the eye-contact, and so did Eames, until Eames’s gaze turned so brazen and palpable it might as well be three-dimensional, weigh a fuck ton, and cut diamond while he was at it.</p><p>Needless to say, everyone noticed. <em>Everyone. </em></p><p>Ariadne was the one who spoke up. “Um.” She glanced back and forth at Eames and Arthur. “What’s going on?”</p><p>Arthur looked away. Damn it. “Nothing,” he said before Eames could open his mouth and encourage whatever her suspicions were. He tossed a glance at Eames, and sighed. Better for Ariadne and the rest to find out from Arthur about their pretend-dating quest than Eames himself, so he said quickly, “Eames had the brilliant idea to fake-date to piss off his ex. To get us Bellini.”</p><p>“I’m missing a connection or two here.” Despite her seeming confusion, there was a subdued excitement in her voice, like she’d been waiting far too long for whatever was currently happening. Which was uncomfortable.</p><p>Eames filled her in, with excessive detail frankly, because he didn’t fail to mention that kiss in the bar, how Arthur had stalked Henry online, and about their upcoming ‘date’ at the Colosseum. Didn’t miss a fucking thing.</p><p>So when Ariadne turned to look at Arthur like she was delighted yet couldn’t believe he had actually agreed to this nonsense, Arthur wanted to fall into a hole and never get out again. Yusuf was off in his corner, giggling to himself until he looked like he couldn’t breathe. For fuck’s sake.</p><p>Arthur rose from his chair, wrought an impassive mask over his face. “Time to go, Eames.”</p><p>“It’s for the greater good, Arthur,” Yusuf called out from his desk as Arthur and Eames walked out.</p><p>The moment the door closed behind them, Eames burst into quiet laughter.</p><p>Arthur rushed along the sidewalk in downtown Rome. “What the hell, Eames.” A woman bumped into him and he sent her a glare so scathing she flinched before hurrying down the path.</p><p>Eames fell into step beside him. “Your face earlier. Bloody priceless,” he said, gathering himself. “And Yusuf’s right, darling. It’s for the greater good, if that’s what you need to tell yourself.”</p><p>“Whatever. I’m just here to do my job.”</p><p>“Which is to date me, at present. What a world we live in.”</p><p>If Eames weren’t so insolent about this, perhaps it’d be easier. Of course, like everything else to do with Arthur, Eames had to go about it in a way that probably had taken years off of Arthur’s natural lifespan by now. Sure, Eames <em>had</em> saved his life, literally, a few times—as had Arthur with him—still, that expectation came with their line of work and Eames wasn’t a saint for it.</p><p>They caught a taxi to the Colosseum. Once they got out of the car, Eames paused on the street and said, “Wait, you’re wearing a Brioni suit. To pose as a tourist. To take <em>touristy </em>photos.”</p><p>“Tourists wear suits.” Right. Arthur could admit that was a weak one.</p><p>“Take that jacket off.”</p><p>“What, no.”</p><p>Eames sighed, looked at Arthur like someone might look at a misbehaving child. The bastard. He made to take off Arthur’s jacket, and Arthur waved him away, muttering a “fuck off” under his breath as he removed it and slung it over his arm.</p><p>“Loosen that tie as well, won’t you. Undo a button or two while you’re at it. Two, actually.”</p><p>“So, to pass as an authentic boyfriend, I have to look homeless. Says something about you, Eames.” Arthur loosened the tie anyway. Also undid two buttons.</p><p>“Oh, come off it. Only you would think that’s a grave sin. Others, may I say, find it terribly sexy,” Eames said, casting Arthur a wink. “And you want to look sexy in our photos, Arthur. Remember why we’re doing it in the first place.”</p><p>Eames would know what Henry would find sexy, wouldn’t he...</p><p>For god’s sake. Arthur would need to stop that line of thought if he was going to survive the afternoon.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Arthur, at least look like you aren’t held at gunpoint,” Eames said after a few pictures at a popular spot, scowling a bit as he scrolled through the gallery on his phone. “This was your idea, need I remind you.”</p><p>Arthur snatched the phone from Eames’s hand. Eames was right; he did look a little miserable. Fuck, this was harder than he’d anticipated.</p><p>“Practice a smile for me,” Eames said when Arthur passed the phone back. “Come on. I know you’re capable of it.”</p><p>“Fine.” Arthur felt his mouth stretch across his face. “Better?”</p><p>“Fuck no,” Eames said, on the verge of laughter. “Think happy thoughts.”</p><p>Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts.</p><p>Arthur’s mind wandered to a time where he was stuck in the office at three in the morning during a particularly hellish job in Rio, and Eames had set a mug of perfectly-brewed espresso on Arthur’s desk before leaving for the night...</p><p>“There you go. I knew you could do it,” Eames said and snapped a photo of them before Arthur could react. Eames zoomed in on the picture after the fact, grinning to himself. “Now you simply need to hold onto that for a while. Not terribly difficult, is it?”</p><p>“I’m not a fucking robot, Eames.” Arthur glanced away, ignoring the heat rising in his cheeks. He hoped to hell it wasn’t visible.</p><p>With Arthur’s smiling crisis sorted, they continued to tour around the Colosseum. Staying true to their plan, they stopped at every location one might find on postcards of Rome. At one point, Eames ruffled up Arthur’s hair right before a photo was taken and blamed it on the wind.</p><p>Somewhere along the way, a young woman offered to take a picture for them, probably feeling sorry for their lack of a selfie-stick or something.</p><p>Before Arthur could politely refuse, Eames said, “That’d be lovely. Thank you.”</p><p>Arthur would look like an asshole if he rejected her now, so he kept quiet and rolled his eyes at Eames.</p><p>Holding the phone up, the woman actually started counting down from three. Jesus Christ. At the count of “two”, Eames muttered to him, “I’m going to kiss you.”</p><p>And he kissed Arthur on the mouth at the count of “one”, held it there for a beat longer after “zero”. Unlike the kiss at the bar, which had been quick and chaste, this was a little deeper, a little warmer, a little softer and when Eames pulled away, Arthur felt as if Eames had shoved him up against a wall, ravaged him with his mouth and whispered the dirtiest sweet nothings into his ear.</p><p>Arthur cleared his throat.</p><p>When Eames got his phone back from the woman—who’d looked positively giddy before she left them alone—he choked out a laugh, glanced up at Arthur, then back at the phone again.</p><p>“What?” Arthur grabbed the phone and scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.</p><p>Apparently, the woman had held onto the shutter button for a few seconds too long and took about fifty of the same photos of Eames plastering his mouth on Arthur.</p><p>“This isn’t funny, Eames.”</p><p>“Yes it is,” Eames said, then his grin straightened when he saw what Arthur was about to do. “No, you’re not deleting them.”</p><p>They wrestled for the phone for a few seconds, and Arthur was tempted to give Eames an incapacitating jab on his side but didn’t want to play dirty—and even then it wasn’t a guarantee Arthur would get the upper hand—so Eames got the phone back soon after, with the photos intact.</p><p>Arthur resisted the urge to groan into his hands.</p><p>Perhaps inception would’ve been easier.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Not 3 chapters after all. Probably 4 or 5 in total :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eames slid his phone across the restaurant table towards Arthur. The afternoon sunlight peeked through the blinds and sliced across the screen, cutting in half a picture Eames had chosen to upload online for Henry to gawk at.</p><p>It was the one where Eames had messed up Arthur’s hair right before he hit the shutter button.</p><p>Arthur barely recognized himself in that, and not in a good way. “No.” He went back to his phone, sipping on a glass of gin and tonic.</p><p>“Why not,” Eames said, “you look positively handsome here, not that you don’t usually. I’m using this one. Among others, of course.”</p><p>“What others?”</p><p>As it happened, by “others” Eames had meant ten of the same pictures of them kissing in front of the Colosseum, taken by the Good Samaritan of a passing tourist.</p><p>Arthur sighed; he could nurse his dignity back to health <em>after </em>they secured the seven figures, with the special edition Piguet he’d been eyeing for a while. So he said, “Whatever does the job.”</p><p>“Mhmm.” Eames smirked stupidly at his phone as he uploaded the photos. “These should do.”</p><p>They left the restaurant soon after, walked back into the square of Piazza Venezia. The right thing to do here would be for Arthur to head back to the office, and for Eames to continue tailing his target. But it was a rather nice afternoon and Arthur would hate to waste it by locking himself away in that cardboard box of an office...</p><p>“It may shock you to hear, Eames, but I think I’m up for more sightseeing,” Arthur said as they were about to hail a taxi.</p><p>“Funny, that. I was about to suggest the same thing. Sofia Romano can survive a day without me,” Eames said with a shrug. “So, where to next?”</p><p>“First and foremost, no more pictures. Fucking swear to me.”</p><p>“Arthur, Arthur, I’ve got enough to last me two lifetimes,” Eames said, smirking. “But I wouldn’t object to more if you insist. Can never say no to you, can I.”</p><p>Arthur rolled his eyes. He’d been doing it a lot lately. His eyeballs might fall out rather soon if Eames kept up with this shit, with his empty flirting and shameless glances. Or maybe it’d be easier if he just punched Eames in the neck the next time he did it again.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They ended up spending the rest of the day out and about, visiting locations both familiar and new, occasionally discussing the extraction job.</p><p>By the time they were heading back to the hotel after dinner, Eames was telling Arthur about his proposed method of pulling off the operation, which would involve Eames seducing and likely fucking the CTO in the secretary’s skin in dreamland to wheedle the information they needed.</p><p>“Eames, you’re a whore,” Arthur found himself saying. It was more a neutral observation than anything else.</p><p>“Call it a personal sacrifice,” Eames said. “Not that it’s much of one, mind you. Mr Muir is not unpleasant to the eyes.”</p><p>“Anything is pleasing to your eyes as long as it’s on two legs,” Arthur said under his breath, pulling out the hotel key card from his wallet.</p><p>“Ah, give yourself some credit, won’t you.”</p><p>Something in Arthur snapped. He shoved Eames against the wall and pinned him down with an arm across his throat, hard enough to get his point across, but not so much it would seriously hurt Eames. Taken aback, Eames stared at him blankly.</p><p>“Stop it with your bullshit,” Arthur said, seeing red, surprised at how fucking annoyed he was. “I’m sick of it.”</p><p>“You’d have to be more specific,” Eames said, unfazed, though the smirk had been wiped off of his insufferable mouth. He made no move to defend himself, and Arthur felt his Adam’s apple jump beneath his forearm as Eames swallowed. Arthur’s eyes dropped to Eames’s lips, full and pink under the glow of the hallway lamp. God, his mouth was fucking ridiculous.</p><p>Forcing his gaze back up to Eames’s, Arthur said, “Let me break it down for you, Eames: stop saying things you don’t mean. Stop saying things like you want—” <em>like you want to fuck me, like you can't stop thinking about how much you want to fuck me because it's</em> “—just stop. I’m not here to play your games.”</p><p>Arthur let go of Eames and swiped his card along the reader to his hotel room. The door clicked open and he slammed it shut behind him. Closing his eyes, Arthur leaned against the door, his heart beating like it wanted to break out of his ribcage. Distantly, he heard Eames’s receding footsteps down the hallway, quieter and quieter until there was only silence.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The thing was, this—this wasn’t new; here and there throughout the years, when they’d come together for various jobs from opposite sides of the world, Eames had always said things that implied he wanted to sleep with Arthur. Even alluded to the possibility of <em>more </em>than fucking if they ever got to it.</p><p>And they’d all been just that—implications. Implications and talk. Of course, Arthur had ignored them the best he could, even when he’d begrudgingly admit Eames was more than palatable, because Arthur didn’t sleep with colleagues. This had been his rule since the start; their line of work was messy enough, didn’t need to add sex—and potentially feelings—into the mix.</p><p>But since they’d put the absurd pretend-dating plan into motion, it was, well, getting difficult to ignore because Eames was no longer just saying things; he was <em>doing </em>things, kissing Arthur with that obscene, beautiful mouth and Eames knew exactly what the hell he was doing. Playing with people’s feelings like he did it for a living because he fucking <em>did </em>and Arthur didn’t have time for this bullshit.</p><p>From the bed, Arthur stared up at the ceiling in the dark and took a slow, deep breath. It was fine. It was fine. The final pitch to Bellini was in a few days; if all went as planned, Henry would be rendered irrelevant and Bellini would fall into their hands. They would carry out the extraction, get paid an eye-watering amount, and Arthur can fuck off to Malaysia or somewhere for a while and he’d never have to see Eames’s stupid face again.</p><p>But right now Arthur was stuck with Eames in Italy. And he was thinking about Eames. In bed. At night. Which inevitably meant his cock had started to stir before Arthur realized it even when he was pissed at the guy.</p><p>For fuck’s sake.</p><p>This wasn’t going to go away on its own. Because Eames was Eames and the mere thought of him always did things to Arthur and it was<em> annoying</em>.</p><p>Fuck it. He could indulge himself tonight, hate himself tomorrow.</p><p>So Arthur brought his hand to his cock and began to stroke himself in the dark, to thoughts of Eames’s lips, hands, how they’d feel on his arms, shoulders, chest. The way Eames would slide his hands down until they cupped Arthur’s ass while Arthur rode his dick on his lap, Eames’s grip finding its path to Arthur’s cock as they rocked to a rhythm so in-sync it was as if Eames existed for the sole purpose of fucking him senseless—</p><p>When Arthur came onto his stomach, it was warm and sticky and disgusting. A fog settled in his brain for a few long moments, and he couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than wipe off his come with a tissue, before falling asleep to nothingness.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning at the office, Arthur ignored Eames for the most part, and after Arthur sent him a quelling glare at his first attempt to make casual conversation, Eames left him alone.</p><p>“The date didn’t go well then?” Ariadne said after she’d shown Arthur the design she’d been working on. “I don’t think I’ve seen you two not say a word to each other for this long.”</p><p>“I might’ve stepped on his toes,” Eames said from his desk, who had the gall to sound apologetic.</p><p>“How so?” she asked.</p><p>“Will you two give it a rest?” Arthur said sharply.</p><p>No one said anything after that.</p><p>Dom touched down in Rome via his overnight flight that morning and arrived at the office around noon. Arthur was surprised he’d even made it at all; since the Fischer job, Dom had all but retired, and only came back for this one due to the exorbitant amount of zeroes after the dollar sign.</p><p>If Dom noticed anything strange about the atmosphere in the room, he didn’t mention it. After a quick catch-up on James and Philippa, Arthur ran through the pitch with him.</p><p>Dom looked at Arthur with raised brows. “Seducing their head of tech as the secretary to steal their IP seems—”</p><p>"Unreliable,” Arthur agreed. “But I’ve scoped out Romano and Muir. They’ve been secretly meeting for a year, Dom. A <em>year. </em>I know, for certain, in Romano’s skin Eames can get what we need. What Bellini needs.”</p><p>“High praise to Eames, coming from you,” Dom said, smiling. “Bellini wouldn’t be thrilled about the method, but needs must.” He proceeded to ask about Henry, about Arthur and Eames’s <em>plan</em>, to which Arthur was surprised to find out no one here had a big enough mouth to blab this particular detail to Dom...</p><p>“We’ll sort it out,” Arthur said, and Dom frowned at his vagueness. “Trust me,” he added, trying not to glance at Eames, who Arthur could see, from the corner of his eye, was watching them intently from a distance.</p><p>Dom let it drop; bless him for actually taking Arthur’s word for it when millions hung in the balance. Then again, it wasn’t like Dom needed the money, and this time James and Philippa weren't at stake.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was the day before the pitch. Eames and Arthur still weren’t speaking, which wasn’t ideal; the final stage of their little plan was supposed to play out tomorrow, and Arthur was still fuzzy on the details because he hadn’t talked to Eames.</p><p>Honestly, it was surprising that Eames had given him the space he’d asked for—too much space, even. In any case, enough was enough, so when Eames returned to the office—presumably from the field where he’d gathered any remaining intelligence on Romano for his forge—Arthur cornered him in the kitchen when he was waiting for the coffee machine to spit out a cup.</p><p>“We need to talk,” Arthur said.</p><p>“You need to come up with something more original." Eames's mouth lifted in a half-smile.</p><p>“Don’t push it.”</p><p>Eames took his now-filled cup of latte from the machine. “Go on then, Arthur. Talk.”</p><p>Glancing towards the workspace, Arthur saw that Ariadne and Yusuf were watching them with unabashed interest. Did they not have anything else to do?</p><p>With a sigh, Arthur grabbed Eames by the elbow and left the office. When they were outside and well away from their colleagues’ prying eyes, Arthur said, “Tomorrow. We need to talk about tomorrow.”</p><p>Eames blinked at him. “Right. Yeah. I thought you were referring to—”</p><p>“I’ve nothing more to add to that, Eames.”</p><p>“So it doesn’t matter what I’ve got to say about it? You didn’t exactly give me the chance to, did you.”</p><p>“I didn’t think you <em>would </em>have much to say.” Arthur raised a brow. “What is it then?”</p><p>Eames waved it off. “Forget it. Now, as for our plan. It hinges on one important detail.” His characteristic smirk was back in place.</p><p>When Eames simply looked at Arthur with amusement, Arthur said, “You’re actually gonna make me ask what it is.”</p><p>“Here it is: Henry always, always goes to the loo before an important meeting,” Eames said like it was the most normal thing to know about someone else. “To freshen up, take a piss, or puke from sheer nervousness, whatever. Point is, he does, like clockwork. And we know, don’t we, that his pitch to Bellini is scheduled an hour after ours.” Eames paused—for dramatic effect, or to annoy Arthur probably. “So, after we’re done, we wait.”</p><p>The plan struck Arthur like a cold splash of water to the face. He scowled at Eames. “You want him to find us in the restroom, just before his meeting.”</p><p>“Excellent skills of deduction, darling.”</p><p>Arthur felt his frown deepen the more he thought about it. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have skipped to this step from the start.”</p><p>“Think about it, Arthur. We’ve been adding straws, one by one, to the camel’s back, and this is what’s gonna break it. And he’ll either fuck up his pitch to Bellini or storm out entirely. Either way, we emerge victorious.”</p><p>“Eames, you’re officially a psychopath.”</p><p>He shrugged. “I do manipulate people for a living.”</p><p>True, that.</p><p>Eames was about to return to the office, but paused at the door. “Also,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur, “I may lie for a living, Arthur, but I’ve never said a thing to you that I didn’t mean.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>They are so fun to write! I hope it's at least half as fun to read xD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When it came to the pitch, Arthur and Dom had done <em>well, </em>objectively.</p><p>One might say Arthur was the furthest from being objective in this situation, but he was, damn it—yet Bellini’s impassive smile suggested nothing further than a wispy “maybe”; Arthur could only hope it would become a resounding “just take my money and go” soon enough—in an hour, give or take, if Eames’s conjecture of Henry’s <em>habits </em>was anything reliable. Which it should be, because Eames was an expert on this brand of creepy, so Arthur wasn’t too worried about it.</p><p>What he was worried about, however, was the plan, which seemed utterly ridiculous and stupid yet simple and effective at once. And Arthur was all for being effective, no matter the means...</p><p>Arthur and Eames. In the restroom. Groping and kissing and doing fuck knows what until Henry walked in and had his world fold in on itself.</p><p>Why the hell had Arthur agreed to this insanity?</p><p>When he left Dom and met up with Eames in the lobby of the office building, he felt sick. Physically. Mentally. Whatever.</p><p>Eames took one look at him and said, “If you’re telling me we’ve lost before we even started, I’d be very, very sad.”</p><p>Christ, did he look that awful?</p><p>“No,” Arthur said quickly, “nothing like that.”</p><p>Slow, deep breaths.</p><p>Eames studied him, brow raised and gaze too intense and knowing for Arthur’s liking. After what seemed like a long, stifling minute but was probably more like a sixth of that, with a lazy smile Eames said, “Having second thoughts?”</p><p>“Piss off.”</p><p>Eames grinned, like it was some fucking compliment. They took one of corner seating areas in the lobby, with Eames sprawled along a black leather couch, and Arthur sitting across from him. Arthur worked on his laptop to pass the time, while Eames scrolled on his phone and occasionally glanced up at the people walking into the building.</p><p>“There he is,” Eames said just when Arthur was about to get some work done. “With fifteen-minutes to go. Henry, Henry, you never disappoint.”</p><p>“Wait, how do we know which restroom he’ll go to?” Arthur asked, remembering they were in a twenty-floor building. “Shit, can’t believe this slipped my mind.”</p><p>“Relax, Arthur. It’ll be the one here, because he won’t want to risk running into Bellini on his floor. He hates pissing next to people he knows. Or wants to impress.”</p><p>“You are shockingly casual about your observations,” Arthur said, which raised a rather unsettling thought of what Eames had observed about him; perhaps it’d do him well to ask one of Eames’s subconscious projections the next time they were in dreamshare...</p><p>Arthur left for the restroom first, followed by Eames a few minutes later.</p><p>“This is stupid,” Arthur said, his palms infuriatingly sweaty and his collar a little tight. He loosened his tie and undid the first few buttons on his shirt. For authenticity, or something. “<em>I</em> feel stupid. And that is not normal, Eames.”</p><p>Eames was peering into the hallway, and a man who was just done washing his hands and about to leave gave them both a weird look. Arthur didn’t blame him.</p><p>Before long, Eames returned to Arthur, a glint in his blue-grey eyes as he gave him a nod. “Ready?”</p><p>“There’s nothing to prepare, or be ready for. Get over yourself.”</p><p>Shrugging off his jacket, Eames let it fall to the floor. Arthur’s was already on the floor, because unlike what he’d said to Eames, he did in fact prepare because if he was going to commit to this, he wasn’t going to half-ass it.</p><p>With a little smirk Eames edged Arthur up against the wall, their bodies not quite touching, yet the heat radiated from him, all the same, like a furnace—no, more like the goddamned <em>sun</em>. Eames turned his face away, enough so that Arthur’s mouth almost brushed his jaw, and he remained in place, waiting.</p><p>“What the hell?” Arthur asked, the movement making his lips skirt against Eames’s stubble. God, it was embarrassing how breathless he sounded even when Eames was doing nothing but stand really, really close to him.</p><p>“What.” Eames turned towards Arthur. His breath was hot against Arthur’s cheek and smelled faintly of mint and tobacco. Arthur could feel the rise and fall of Eames’s chest against his own as he breathed. Fuck, he was close. “Bloody hell, Arthur, did you think I was gonna sexually assault you for a job?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “He just needs to think we’re doing what we’re not doing, darling.”</p><p><em>But I want him to think we’re doing what we </em>are <em>doing god fucking dammit— </em></p><p>The door swung open, and Arthur didn’t wait to see who it was before he kissed Eames on the mouth, swallowing his small, surprised gasp before Arthur felt Eames relax into the kiss and—<em>god,</em> his lips were scorching and supple and succulent, made all the more so by how shockingly pliant they were.</p><p>Arthur half-expected him to pull away—because what the hell were they doing right now?—but Eames only kissed him harder, holding him against the wall until they were pressed upon each other from thigh to chest.</p><p>The voice in Arthur's head was telling him to stop, telling him that it was <em>enough</em>, because Henry had to be the one who'd walked in, and he'd have seen them and probably left by now, but he didn't want to fucking stop. So Arthur grabbed blindly at Eames’s sides, hooked his fingers around Eames’s belt loops to pull him closer because he wanted to <em>feel </em>Eames on him, fuck, wanted to feel Eames’s cock grind against him through their clothes. And Arthur did, because why the hell not, but he wanted more, wanted to touch Eames, to feel the burn of his bare skin beneath his fingers as he dragged his hands down his sweat-slicked back. Eames leaned into him, gripped Arthur by his ass, palms hot against the fabric of his pants as he brushed his mouth along the line of Arthur’s jaw.</p><p>Distantly, Arthur knew if they didn’t stop now they might very well end up fucking right here like two horny teenagers—</p><p>Then Arthur remembered the reason they were doing this at all.</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait.” He pushed Eames away dazedly until he stumbled back a step. “Was Henry here? He must’ve come in. <em>Eames.</em>” His heartbeat pounded in his ears, hard and fast still, and he drew a long breath, steadying himself.</p><p>Eames glanced at the door, then his eyes were back on Arthur. “Yeah. Yeah, he did,” he said eventually. The flush was high on his cheeks and his lips were a lovely shade of pink. Arthur wanted to kiss him again.</p><p>“We did it, right?” Arthur said. “Shit, I wish we saw his face or something so I’d know for sure—”</p><p>“Arthur, have faith.” Eames gave him a languid smile. “It’s done.”</p><p>Staring at Eames dumbly, Arthur asked, “What now then? We head back to the office like nothing’s happened? <em>Did </em>anything happen?” Arthur squeezed eyes shut, pressed the heel of his palm against them. “Jesus Christ.”</p><p>“One thing at a time, darling,” Eames said quietly. “Office first. The rest, later.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>An hour after Eames and Arthur had felt each other up behind closed doors, they got the job.</p><p>The news came through a phone call, and Dom had answered it with a poker-face, keeping everyone on the fucking edge until he hung up with the biggest grin Arthur had ever seen from him.</p><p>An hour and fifteen minutes later, they were celebrating at a bar.</p><p>Dom had said something about not getting too shitfaced, because they had a workshop first thing next morning.</p><p>No one listened, even Ariadne.</p><p>Arthur <em>tried </em>to, he did, but in the face of such a victory he couldn’t help himself but indulge some. As for Eames, his natural state of being was one of indulgence, so there was that.</p><p>By the time the sun had dipped below the horizon and colored the sky in a surreal orange-purple, Arthur was pleasantly buzzed. They’d fallen away from the rest of the group now, Arthur and Eames, lingering on the edge of the precinct, standing a little closer to each other than they perhaps would in a previous time, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes—mostly Eames’s, because Arthur <em>didn’t </em>tell stupid jokes.</p><p>When they walked out of the bar into the descending dusk, they fell into each other amidst the half-shadows of an alley, the brick wall rough behind Arthur’s back as Eames held him against it, mouth barely above his as they shared their breaths in the brisk evening air.</p><p>Arthur didn’t know if it was the drinks or their stint in their restroom that had let loose of his inhibitions—inhibitions that would’ve chanted in his head that this was a fucking terrible, terrible idea—because there was nothing more he wanted than to brush his lips against Eames’s, feel their warmth in the crisp ambiance, so he did, and Eames let him—god, did he let him.</p><p>Somewhere, sometime, when Eames was kissing a path along Arthur’s collarbone, lit by the muted glow of an overhead street lamp, Arthur said— “Hotel. Now. Fucking now, Eames.”</p><p>There wouldn’t be much said after that, because they’d be too busy in their worship, too enraptured by the heat of each other’s touch, too fucking <em>taken </em>by the ache and desire and everything red and god there was nothing else so marvelous.</p><p>And the next morning, Arthur would wake up next to Eames and remembered what a pleasant night it had been, before he saw it for the mistake it was.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Another chapter to go, I think. I keep changing my mind and expanding this story because I under-estimated the amount of development these two boys needed... Oops!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Arthur awoke to the scent of overnight cologne—his own Soleil Blanc and Eames’s Cuiron—or was it Ambre Nuit?—laced with musk that came with forgoing a shower in favor of head-spinning sex that was but a distant fog this morning.</p><p>Eames was fast asleep next to him, lying on his stomach, his face so close to Arthur’s shoulder that Arthur could feel the steady beat of his exhales fanning across his skin. Arthur allowed his gaze to linger on Eames’s face, long enough to appreciate his beauty—unadulterated and free of the subdued audacity that clung onto his waking moments—but not so long that Arthur could lose himself in its whimsicality.</p><p>Carefully and with great reluctance, Arthur dragged himself out of bed. Only then did he realize they were in Eames’s room, which looked like a place where his suitcase had exploded all over. Usually, Arthur disliked this sort of frivolous mess borne from a general lack of giving a fuck, but here, with every surface of the room marked by Eames’s existence in some way or another, it felt—cozy.</p><p>The realization was uncomfortable, which was absurd, because they had kissed and groped and fucked to the precipice and beyond a mere night ago, and Arthur was feeling <em>uncomfortable </em>about being in Eames’s room—</p><p>Reality hit Arthur, hard and sharp, like the crack of a whip: he’d had sex with Eames, taken his cock up his ass, moaned Eames’s name like a greedy whore as he rode him not just in the crevasse of his fantasies but right here, on this bed—a fact that Arthur’s mind needed time to unpack, time he didn’t have because Dom’s workshop had started ten minutes ago and Arthur was still half-naked in Eames’s room and Eames was still passed out to the world.</p><p>Arthur’s instinct was to run to his room, make himself as presentable as possible in four minutes, race across the road to the office in one and arrive at the workshop, fashionably late by fifteen minutes.</p><p>Instead, he threw a pillow at Eames’s face.</p><p>“Rise and shine,” Arthur said as he pulled the comforter completely off of the bed, exposing Eames’s bare back and ass to the air-conditioned chill. A very nice back and an even nicer ass— “Eames, get up. We’re late. The workshop, remember?” Arthur shook him on the shoulder for a good five seconds or so before he stirred.</p><p>“Piss off,” Eames said into the pillow. “Cobb can bloody deal. Piece of shit deserves it for scheduling this at eight AM.”</p><p>“Suit yourself,” Arthur said. “I’m leaving. Don’t fall back asleep.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Somehow, Eames managed to arrive at the office before Arthur.</p><p>But not that much earlier than him, apparently, because when Arthur walked into the room, Eames had just settled into a chair. Everyone was looking at them, back and forth, either in reprimand for making them wait or curiosity about the nature of their lateness, or both.</p><p>Muttering a non-committal excuse, Arthur took an empty seat and tried to ignore the stares. Dom had stopped scribbling on the flip chart, brows raised at Arthur, but said nothing.</p><p>Ariadne chirped up with a question that was better left unasked, “So, are you guys still pretend-boyfriends, or is this—” she gestured vaguely with her hand “—an actual thing now?”</p><p>Arthur didn’t know which was worse: the nonchalance with which she’d posed the question, or the question itself. “Kill me,” he muttered under his breath. He chanced a glance at Dom, who looked so afflicted with second-hand embarrassment that Arthur almost felt sorry for him.</p><p>Yusuf chuckled quietly beside Arthur, and Eames said, unamused, “Show’s over, gents, lady. Do continue, Cobb, before we all forget why we’re here.”</p><p>The morning continued without further drama as the team discussed details of the operation. In fourteen days, the mind-heist would go down at the After Dark—a fancy strip club downtown that Casella’s CTO frequented. Dom had arranged to buy out the entire executive lounge for the evening, get a stripper—no, an <em>attendant </em>to put Muir under when he came in, unsuspecting, and they would steal Casella’s intellectual property for the new artificial intelligence platform that Bellini was willing to pay a pretty sum for.</p><p>Four hours from start to finish, and it would be like they were never even there.</p><p>Eames was unusually quiet throughout the procession, only speaking up to add his input and nothing more. No cursory jabs or snarky comments, and no incessant clicking of his pen to annoy Arthur either. It was—strange.</p><p>Perhaps it was Eames’s way of brushing over what had happened last night, by pretending none of it ever happened, but that wasn’t it…</p><p>If Eames was going on as usual, he would be doing all of the above right now. In any case, Arthur was tempted to go with it, to let this <em>thing</em>—whatever it was—hang in the air until it either choked them or faded into nothing and they would never speak of it again.</p><p>But Arthur couldn’t; he wanted, needed to get this out of his system, to parse the ambiguity until there was nothing left to question. Surely they could communicate like adults after having some very adult sex, for god’s sake.</p><p>Then again, what would Arthur say?</p><p>
  <em>Hey, we fucked, and I know this was not part of the pretend-game because that was done and dusted, but we fucked anyway. And I really wanna do it again, which is a problem, because unlike you I don’t mix business with pleasure and you are now unfortunately both.</em>
</p><p>What a goddamned mouthful; thus, during their break at noon—which was also the first opportunity they had to speak in private—Arthur said to Eames, “Saigon Gate around the corner is at least half-decent. Pho for lunch?”</p><p>Eames appraised him, as though searching for something on Arthur’s expression. “Vietnamese in Rome,” he said, voice light. “Why not?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“Not up to your standards?” Eames asked after Arthur took his first mouthful of the noodles and broth at Saigon. The lunch rush was sky-high, with people chatting all over each other as they scrambled to finish their food to return to their offices in time.</p><p>“It’s passable,” Arthur said, unimpressed, “but I’m definitely taking the job in Hanoi after this. Fuck, I miss their food. And their coffee. I may or may not kill for a cup right now.”</p><p>Eames lifted a brow, looking amused. “You <em>are </em>allowed to travel for reasons outside of work. Time-off is a phenomenon, Arthur, not a myth.”</p><p>“Are you suggesting I take a vacation, Mr Eames? Unthinkable.”</p><p>“You’d be surprised what a little holiday of stress-relief can do for your skin, and you’re all about keeping up that baby-smooth skin, aren’t you now.”</p><p>“You do pay attention,” Arthur said, feeling oddly proud. “Well done, Eames.”</p><p>“It’s what I do.”</p><p>Arthur shrugged.</p><p>“Though with the way you strut around, it’s frankly hard not to,” Eames added, and the newfound tentativeness in his voice—subtle, but undeniable—was unexpected.</p><p>But Arthur only shook his head, feeling his mouth curl into a little smile despite himself. They continued with their meal, with the occasional small talk peppered in between; they talked about many things—from the news to the mysterious late-night disturbances on their hotel floor that sounded suspiciously like orgies to Yusuf’s latest variation of Somnacin—basically anything except what Arthur wanted to actually talk to Eames about.</p><p>Before Arthur knew it, they were done eating and on their way back to the office, and they still hadn’t discussed what mattered.</p><p>Arthur was about to blurt out <em>something</em>—he didn’t care what, at this point, just needed an opener—but Eames beat him to it and said, “About last night. Uh.” It was weird seeing him at a loss for words. “That was—what was that?”</p><p>Arthur focused his gaze on a distant street lamp. “Don’t know about you, Eames, but I wasn’t playing pretend.” Christ, what the fuck was he saying? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Eames was about to say something, but Arthur added, firmly, “Still, it can’t happen again.” Arthur’s gaze wandered to him, trying to gauge a reaction.</p><p>Eames’s expression fell ever so imperceptibly. Or it was a trick of the light. “Right.”</p><p>“I can’t,” Arthur continued. “Do the business with pleasure thing. I’ve seen it go to shit too many times.” Dom and Mal, as the ultimate example.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“Anyway, it wouldn’t matter to you, right?” Arthur was rambling now, because someone had to make up for Eames’s uncharacteristic silence. “Next week you’ll find yourself another nameless fuck and be off to the races.”</p><p>Eames gave a quiet, bitter laugh that surprised Arthur. “You know, you can be such a nasty little bitch when you want to be.”</p><p>Bristling, he said, “Am I wrong?”</p><p>“What if I said you were?”</p><p>Arthur sighed. “It wouldn’t change a thing.”</p><p>“All right. Thanks for the clarification,” Eames said coldly, and sped up his pace until he was lost amidst the pedestrians.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Since that conversation, Eames didn’t speak to Arthur outside of work, and when they did speak at all it was only <em>about </em>work, which was honestly taking it to the other extreme end of things.</p><p>Yet Arthur had no excuse; he’d made his stance clear, and even if Eames didn’t understand, he at least respected it…</p><p>On the sixth day, Dom pulled Arthur into a corner and said, “We don’t have a problem, do we?”</p><p>Arthur stared at him blankly.</p><p>“Eames,” Dom said, frowning.</p><p>Right. “No. Everything’s fine.”</p><p>“We need Eames to be on his game, Arthur. You, as well.”</p><p>“I know, Dom. I said it’ll be fine.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I lied again! There's going to be another chapter. This time, I'm 99.9% sure it's going to be the last one.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dom had been wrong about Eames; if nothing else, Eames’s insistence on ignoring Arthur—the exception being reasons pertinent to the heist—for the past eight days had proven one thing: as far as he could tell, disregarding Arthur’s existence to Eames was like flipping a goddamned switch.</p><p>Arthur should be glad about this, he should, yet he was the opposite of glad. In fact, he was quite annoyed that it seemed so easy for Eames, the fucker. Really, it shouldn’t be a surprise, because compartmentalisation was an unofficial prerequisite for being a forger and Eames was a good one at that.</p><p>But it didn’t mean Arthur had to like it.</p><p>Oh, he fucking <em>hated </em>it.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The following week was but long days and longer nights fueled by stubbornness and caffeine as Arthur put together the final pieces of the operation. Eames had been out most of the week, more so than he usually would for a job of a similar calibre. To avoid Arthur, probably. Or he could just be honing his finesse on Romano, talking to himself in her voice as he dissected her personality in front of a mirror, or whatever it was that Eames always did before they went under.</p><p>It was past midnight. Ariadne had dozed off at her desk, Yusuf and Dom—being the ones with a semi-healthy work-life balance, apparently—had left hours ago, and Arthur had just sent another email when Eames walked in with some takeout.</p><p>He left a pack on Ariadne’s desk—though by the looks of her she would be having it for breakfast—and another on Arthur’s, before leaving again without saying a word.</p><p>Arthur scrambled to his feet and rushed to the door. At Eames’s retreating form, he said, “So you’re gonna buy me food and still continue to ignore me.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Arthur,” Eames said without turning back, and disappeared around the corner.</p><p>Sighing, Arthur returned to his desk. He peered at the box of takeout in front of him, which seemed almost suspicious under the dim glow of his desk lamp. The bastard had better not poisoned it.</p><p>Before long, Arthur would learn that Eames indeed had not.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The night before the extraction, Arthur was in bed on his phone, scrolling through pictures of their outing to the Colosseum.</p><p>Fuck, this was pathetic.</p><p>Pausing at the photo where Eames had kissed him in front of the monument, Arthur stared at it for a good minute, before he slammed the phone face-down on the pillow, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks from sheer embarrassment in no one’s company but his own.</p><p>That was it; no one had to know, and no one <em>would </em>know, so what was the problem?</p><p>Before he knew what the hell he was doing, he sent the picture to Eames with the caption <em>‘This’</em>. When his brain finally registered exactly what he’d done, he fumbled with his phone, tried to delete the message before Eames could see it—</p><p><em>‘Are you drunk?’ </em>came Eames’s reply.</p><p>Arthur buried his face in his pillow and resisted the urge to jump off the fucking window.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was ten thirty PM, and the After Dark was theirs.</p><p>To no one’s surprise, Ted Muir sauntered into the club at ten forty-five, already half-drunk from wherever he’d come from, and got himself the usual VIP room. It was smooth-sailing from there; Muir was unknowingly drugged to sleep by his preferred stripper—who, like most, was loyal to none but the power of cold, hard cash—and Eames, Arthur and Dom went under with Muir via the PASIV.</p><p>Unlike the nightmare that had been the Fischer job, this one was rather peaceful. Dom and Arthur set the dream stage, while Eames disguised as Muir’s secretary by day and lover by night. As planned, Yusuf’s latest trial of Somnacin to lower the target’s inhibitions worked well enough that they didn’t get gunned down within the first five minutes, and Ariadne’s level designs were sufficient for the relatively straight-forward mission.</p><p>Three hours of dream-time had passed before Romano emerged from the elevator and rejoined Dom and Arthur, with a victorious grin and an envelope full of what was hopefully Bellini’s precious IP. Her form morphed back into Eames, and the weight in Arthur’s chest ebbed until he felt himself return Eames’s smirk.</p><p>Things happened quickly after they surfaced to reality. They packed up the PASIV, reorganised the club lounge back into place, and left before Muir even stirred.</p><p>Dom reported back to Bellini in the car as Arthur drove them back to the hotel in the dead of night. Within the next two hours, the money was theirs.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <em>[Arthur, 3:31 AM]: Are we still not talking?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:32 AM]: We’re talking now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Arthur, 3:32 AM]: When are you flying out?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:34 AM]: In 10 hours.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Arthur, 3:35 AM]: What the fuck? Where to.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:35 AM]: Haven’t decided :)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Arthur, 3:36 AM]: Fuck you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:36 AM]: You did, yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Arthur, 3:37 AM]: Fuck you twice.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:40 AM]: Go to bed. You need your beauty sleep. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Arthur, 3:40 AM]: You calling me ugly?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:41 AM]: Goodnight. Or morning. Goodnight.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[Eames, 3:52 AM]: I wasn’t calling you ugly.</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was busy at the Fiumicino Airport the next morning. Arthur tried his best to blend into the crowd as he followed Eames to the departure terminal, staying as far behind as he could without losing sight of him. As yet, Arthur remained undetected, which meant one of two things: either he was remarkably good at this, or Eames was pretending not to notice.</p><p>Honestly, who the hell was Arthur kidding? He was tailing someone who tailed for a goddamned living.</p><p>Be that as it may, in the hour that Arthur had been stalking—keeping track of Eames, he’d learned a thing or two: Eames’s flight to London would depart in fifty-seven minutes. Time was running out fast, like water swirling down the drain, for Arthur to make nice with Eames—<em>properly </em>and nothing less—before he left the country and god knows when they’d see each other again after this.</p><p>And so it was with this elementary, honest-to-god determination to not leave their relationship in this tepid state of limbo that Arthur shoved his way through the line to the security clearance until he reached Eames.</p><p>Arthur grabbed him by the hand, rough and insistent, and led him through the crowd, all the while muttering “don’t you dare step through that gate or I’ll hunt you down for the rest of your days” or something equally ridiculous and embarrassing.</p><p>Eames remained silent the entire way as he let Arthur drag him along without any hint of resistance. It wasn’t until they exited the airport terminal that Eames stopped behind him, hand on Arthur’s still. Both of them were unyielding as they fought a simmering tug-of-war—for fuck’s sake Eames was a stubborn bastard—until Eames said, ”Arthur, are you done?”</p><p>“What,” Arthur said, the word coming out in a snarl, “did you think I was gonna let you fuck off out of Rome without fixing this—”</p><p>It seemed Eames didn’t plan to hear what else Arthur had to say, because he yanked Arthur close and kissed him on the mouth, deep and shameless and unreal. Arthur stopped thinking then, because fuck it, all he’d done was think and think and now he just wanted to <em>feel</em>, so he returned Eames’s kiss, matching his fervor and more, shoved Eames back until his shoulder blades hit the wall.</p><p>Vaguely, Arthur was aware of the spectacle they were making, the stares of onlookers palpable yet all too fucking easy to ignore because Eames was here, in his arms and fucking hell Arthur hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this idiot until he got his hands on him and now he didn’t want to let go for anything—</p><p>“Airport hotel, next door,” Eames mumbled into his mouth, hands sliding all over his back, messing up his pressed jacket and Arthur didn’t give a shit, because if his suit was going to get fucked up it might as well be at Eames’s hands. “Darling, as tempting as it is to shag you right here, I’m not thrilled about adding indecent exposure to my long list of offenses—”</p><p>Arthur pressed a silencing kiss to Eames’s lips, still breathing a little hard from having the world spun out beneath his feet moments ago. “Shut the hell up.” He took Eames’s hand again, grip firm but softer this time. “Airport hotel it is.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The door had barely closed behind them when Arthur pushed Eames against it, ravaging him with his mouth and tongue as Eames tugged Arthur’s jacket off of his shoulders. Arthur kissed a haphazard line down Eames’s throat, scraped his teeth over his pulse point, clumsy and harsh about it, and sealed his mouth over the tender spot. He sucked on it greedily, the salty tang of Eames’s skin making him ache for more—<em>Christ, </em>he tasted good—and Arthur rose to look at Eames’s face, to drink in the sight of Eames, cheeks flushed and mouth parted and gasping, before he kissed him again, warm breaths passing from lungs to lungs until they were dizzy with too little air and too much desire.</p><p>Arthur was working the buttons open on Eames’s shirt as they stumbled to the bed, blind and feverish with urgency, and Arthur manhandled Eames so he was leaning against the headboard. Their eyes met, and the stormy grey-blue of Eames’s eyes—glazed and dark and wanting—made Arthur’s dick twitch beneath his pants, pants that Eames was fumbling at—“God, you’re fucking stunning,” Arthur said before he brought their mouths together, hands aiding Eames to get his clothes off once and for all.</p><p>Eames was already naked, shirt and pants and everything else having slipped off somewhere between the door and the bed. The sight of his cock made Arthur’s throat run dry in the best way and he descended on Eames, took him into his mouth, hard and fast and wet. The sound of Eames’s sharp inhale drove Arthur to take him deeper, feeling his cock hit the back of his throat. His hands were on Eames’s thighs, fingers pressing with enough force to leave marks if not bruises as Arthur sucked his dick. He played at the tip with his tongue, lapped across the slit, tasting his pre-come, succulent and heavenly and there was nothing else better.</p><p>Arthur pulled away and mouthed a sloppy path at the crease of Eames’s thigh, tasting his musk, reveling in it, in the way Eames begged for Arthur’s mouth on his cock again, breathless and dazed. Fuck, he was beautiful like this, splayed beneath Arthur’s touch and at his mercy.</p><p>Smirking, Arthur rose and kissed him on the mouth again, swallowing his plea. “How do you want me?” Arthur asked roughly, words scraped against Eames’s jaw. “What do you want? Say it.”</p><p>“You,” Eames said, panting. “I want you. I don’t care how, fuck, just come here.” He cupped the back of Arthur’s neck, turned his head so their lips met, pliant and warm.</p><p>Arthur didn’t let Eames kiss him for long, because he pulled away and said, “Touch yourself.” Arthur fumbled for the lube, coated his own fingers until they were slick and cold with it. When Eames simply stared at him, he repeated, more firmly this time, “Touch yourself, Eames.”</p><p>Eames obliged, wordless. His gaze remained on Arthur as he knelt before Eames, one knee between Eames’s legs, and fingered himself open, quick and impatient, bearing the sting because, fuck, he wanted Eames <em>now</em>.</p><p>When Arthur was ready, he fiddled with the condom packet, fingers unwieldy with haste, until he swore because the stupid thing wouldn’t open—Eames took it from him, tore it free and rolled the rubber onto his dick. Arthur smeared Eames's cock with lube until it was messy and glistening and all too fucking tempting, then he was on Eames without missing a beat—slow at first, even when there was nothing else he wanted but to ride Eames until he saw stars—</p><p>“You all good? Fuck, Arthur, you’re tight, god—you sure you're okay—”</p><p>“I’m fine, shut up.” He buried his face into the curve of Eames’s neck, rolling his hips as he grinded down on him. And he let Eames fuck him to the brink of sanity, the feeling of Eames inside him the sweetest, sweetest ache.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“You still gonna take that job in Vietnam?” Eames asked, voice thick with post-coital fog as they lay in bed, spent as all hell.</p><p>Arthur shrugged. “Guess so. What about you? What are you gonna do,” he said, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice but failing, because his voice clipped at the last word and he hated that it did.</p><p>“A holiday sounds bloody good right about now, actually.”</p><p>Arthur let his eyes flutter shut as he listened to Eames’s breathing, to the steady hum of the air conditioning in the faraway backdrop. “Mhmm, it does.”</p><p>“Been thinking about it for a while,” Eames said. “No better time than the present, as they say.”</p><p>Cracking open an eye to look at Eames, Arthur asked, “Where would you go?”</p><p>“Anywhere. Everywhere. So long as there isn’t a price on my head in that particular corner of the world.”</p><p>“Narrows down the list quite a bit.”</p><p>Eames let out a small, quick laugh, low in his throat. “You’re not one to talk, darling.”</p><p>Arthur only smiled at that, closing his eyes, his finger absentmindedly tracing a pattern on Eames’s arm.</p><p>“If you weren’t such a bloody workaholic, I might even ask you to come with,” Eames said quietly beside him. “Hanoi, why not. Pho. Their coffee. Things you said you’d kill for not so long ago, Arthur. Things you could have, even without the strings of a job. Imagine that.”</p><p>God, that sounded amazing.</p><p>“Okay,” Arthur said before his brain processed what exactly he was saying.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Arthur kept his eyes shut as he waited for the apprehension to hit, to force him to take back his words. But it never did. Not even when Arthur was looking at Eames, feeling a half-smile tug at his mouth. “I said okay.” His voice was more certain now, the tentativeness nothing more than a hushed afterthought, because—because, yes, he’d just agreed to a vacation. With Eames. To a city he'd probably have gone to anyway for the next job, but maybe for once he could—<em>should</em> go for a reason none other than to have a good time as he let himself forget life, work and everything in between.</p><p>So, why not?</p><p>Why the <em>fuck</em> not?</p><p>“What about your thing—” Eames waved a hand in the air “—about not getting involved with people you work with?”</p><p>“Wow, so I’m trying to make a decision and you’re poking holes and making me question it,” Arthur said dryly.</p><p>“I’d rather you question it now than later.” He propped himself up on an elbow, scowling at Arthur. “Later, you know, when we’re thirty thousand feet in the air and you realize you’d rather jump off the plane than <em>mix business with pleasure</em>.”</p><p>“Thanks. For the vote of confidence,” Arthur said, and sighed as he added—“Sorry, I deserved that. But yes, if it’s between risking us fucking things up or losing...this, whatever the hell this is, then I’d choose the risk, I think.”</p><p>“You think?”</p><p>“I <em>know</em>.”</p><p>“Huh. All right, then.”</p><p>“Do contain your enthusiasm, Eames.”</p><p>Granting Arthur a smirk, Eames leaned in and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s mouth, soft and tender, with so much affection that Arthur was almost afraid to take it in his hands.</p><p>But Arthur did, because he was happy, damn it, and for whatever reason, he was happy <em>because </em>of Eames and that was—that was something he didn’t want to lose.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>There goes my first A/E fic! Can't believe it took me TEN YEARS after watching the movie to write anything for these two. Anyway, it was fun as hell, and I hope you enjoyed the ride! If you've any thoughts, I'd love to hear what you think :)</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Find me on Tumblr at <a href="https://strawberriez8800x.tumblr.com/">@strawberriez8800x</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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